


Miasma

by orphan_account



Category: Warhammer 40.000
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-07-23 11:31:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20007601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: And awaaaaaaay we goooo!





	1. Chapter 1

312 606.M41

The bindings committing her to frigid stone ached around her flesh, skin swollen and bruised under the duress of struggle long since ceased. Leera tried to clear the dry scratch in her throat, the noise a cracked, strained wheeze prefacing a subjugated attempt to speak. Grey matter throbbed mercilessly in her skull and eyelids fluttered closed as her chapped lips panted tiredly, golden eyes unfocused and searching the floor for nothing while the sting of heavy perspiration in her wounds seemed lost in the fog as it dripped from quivering auburn locks to dilute the crimson pooling at her bared feet. The sharp slap of boot heels through shallow water dragged Leera’s consciousness from what she was certain was the precipice of oblivion to note a presence approaching, the air growing thicker with each footfall until the toes of fine, well-cobbled shoes rippled the swirling puddle she’d been staring absently into, framed in a halo of sweat-drenched hair.

"Vitals are quiet, but stable. Warp synergy cycling at 80%. If we don’t Illuminate her soon we may miss our chance, Lord Inquisitor." an androgynous voice murmured softly, seemingly unperturbed by the situation in its entirety. A fleeting moment of clarity to Leera’s aching mind pondered if it even belonged to anything human.

Honeyed wine melted into the creases of her brain, the dull throb leaving a sugared taste in the back of her parched throat as the remainder of her senses were overwhelmed with shivering cold that she’d only experienced once, in the highest altitudes of her homeworld. Even the harsh winds and unrelenting snow laced among those peaks paled in comparison to the ice crawling through every vein, chilling every cell to its core. Leera inhaled sharply as gooseflesh erupted and drew tight against her lacerations, a flickering spark harmlessly leaping across the flowing wounds for a mere second, easily missed by any not seeking it. The sugar in her mouth melted into a heated pool at the base of her skull, entwining with the incessant thrum of her mind before climbing to a searing lucidity, the body’s agony forgotten for this blessed moment as she stirred in her trappings again, fervor dragging an incomprehensible curse from her tongue until exhaustion took its hold once more and she fell lax, muttered hatred lost in the dragging of her breath. Slowly, the cold subsided and the sweet, heavy nectar returned with an indignant groan rumbling in her chest.

A dark chuckle lilted over the whispered voices beginning to linger in the corners of her perception, the one strangely familiar among the rousing din like a distant memory. “We didn’t enjoy that much at all, mm?”

“Sir-” the second voice interjected the Lord Inquisitor’s assertion, a note of warning to the otherwise stagnant and unfeeling timbre of its voice.

“She’s almost ready.” He chimed quietly, more to himself than his assistant. The faint pat of his palm hitting the stone gently next to her drained face brought another spark, dancing between beads of sweat resting at her throat as the Lord Inquisitor broke the curtain of hair shrouding Leera’s face to greet her tired, amber gaze. “Aren’t you?”

“Vitals climbing, cycling is erratic but remains at 80% efficiency.”

Meeting the glittering rage stirring behind Leera’s weary eyes with nothing short of intent, his voice dropped to a rough whisper and the biting cold began to return, infecting synapses and burrowing deep into her bones. “This is it, girl. I know you hear them. They will take you.” He paused long enough to snare her drooping chin with a gloved hand, forcing her pupils to his. “Serve dutifully in heaven or be eaten alive in hell.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And awaaaaaaay we goooo!

426 608.M41

An abrupt chill swept through the simple training cage, the gust kicking up the stinging grit of loose sand and biting at Hawthorne’s cheeks as white-hot electricity erupted from his protege's palms with a sharp, ear-ringing crack before arcing forward in a crescent, roiling wave of energy and destruction, jagged threads of steel blue and blinding silver darting through the ionized atmosphere with vicious, primal purpose. The unfortunate servitor caught in the lethal blast seized violently with a shrill cry from the abused bionics before crumpling unceremoniously to the floor, a translucent wisp of smoke coiling gently from the remains as the unpleasant scent of electrical fire filled the Lord Inquisitor's nostrils. Wrinkling his aquiline nose at the offending smell, Hawthorne raised a gloved hand to obscure his senses of it and shot the Acolyte a crooked smile framed in week-old shadow, pleased to see her improvement. 

"Well done, Leera. It’s crucial to know that the power you wield can be expended for much more than tending bruises.” Hawthorne stated simply, a softness to his speech that seemed misplaced, “With meditation and practice, you’ll find that the naturally savage nature of that energy is easier to harness.” The Lord Inquisitor let a bemused chuckle, punctuating the seriousness of the lesson as he gestured to the striations glistening under the floodlight of the modest arena.

The prideful beam lighting up the Acolyte’s features dimmed marginally, gilded eyes pausing in reflection over the now-defunct servitor unit to follow the trail of tarnished glass laced in furious strokes along the packed dunes of the sparring floor. Fingering at a rogue lock of bone white strands before tucking them behind the ear, Leera felt her lips purse in disapproval of their own accord, gaze lifting to meet the hazel abyss set into the Lord Inquisitor’s face. 

"You know I'd rather not-" she began, tongue poised to continue even as her rebuttal tumbled into nothingness.

Hawthorne paused, smirk faltering and his tone hardening. "It's important that you are able to defend yourself. This is not an evil thing if you can control it, and I for one have faith in your abilities." Leera's skin pricked as a warmth enveloped her anxious mind, smoothing it over like the off-white food spread in the galley that tasted nothing shy of plasticrete as the smirk returned to the Lord Inquisitor’s visage, tugging wolfishly at the corners of his mouth. “You didn’t end up as fuel for the Throne, I’d call that a rousing success.”

Leera blinked away the lull of his psyche advancing on her own, gold irises studying his expression for further clarification. “What exactly is that supposed to mean?” she inquired, an edge to her tone that lingered on the threshold of discomfort. During the entirety of her apprenticeship thus far, it had never occurred to her that not all who were chosen survived the Illumination. Pondering on it in the back of her mind even as lips formed the question, the cold realization that she herself had almost been one of them soured any response that her mentor might have.

The shadow of regret flickered over his hooded eyes before being squashed by a carefully curated and diligent composure, half-smile persisting even as he turned on a heel and began to slowly pace away. Hawthorne straightened his posture as he ambulated, gloved hands seeking the pockets of his woolen overcoat as meticulously polished boots shattered the rivers of glass adorning the sand, the sharp crunch punctuating the near silence that had fallen over the ring. After a few paces the Lord Inquisitor paused at the remains of the destroyed servitor and finally spoke again, his voice unusually hushed and dark. “If you have to ask, then you already know...don’t you agree?”

An unsettling quiet washed over the pair, the passage of time grinding to a halt and the whisper of a few remaining sparks firing from the battered machine at his feet deafening in its presence. Leera chewed at her lower lip as her troubled stare fell from the pleated back of her mentor’s elaborate coat to the floor, searching the glittering web for an appropriate answer and finding none.

“I have to admit, however,” Hawthorne began after what seemed to be an agonizing silence, the unexpected softness returning to his timbre despite the refusal to turn away from the crumpled bionics, “out of all the souls I’ve whisked away from those pesky Witch Hunters, you’ve handled it all quite well. Most end up like our fricasseed friend here.”

“You don’t much care for the Inquisition, do you?” the young psyker eventually verbalised after a long moment of absorbing this enlightening information. It wasn’t often that he shared anything about himself or his part in this grand scale machination called the Imperium of Man, but with this query the Lord Inquisitor wheeled around to address his protege, demeanor twisted and coiling in something close to anger.

“That kind of talk will ensure you end up like this one.” He quipped, crow’s feet appearing as his eyes narrowed sharply in disapproval, “I would highly recommend you keep such thoughts to yourself if you cannot avoid them entirely.”


End file.
